


Will I see you again?

by Havokftw



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Cat/Human Hybrids, Edgeplay, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hybrids, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Gore, Oral Sex, Pining, Protectiveness, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, happy jicheol day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 00:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16336433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: Just one more time—Seungcheol tells himself, as the taxi slows and then stops outside The Pink Panther.He doesn’t want to consider how many ways that this is a bad idea. How the world has turned upside-down in the space of a few hours over one guy. But he still finds himself walking through the front doors, loitering in the main room with his eyes glued on the stage.





	Will I see you again?

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dilemma about song choices. So, I'll let you pick what you thought Jihoon danced too. Personally, I think these three work the best, but that's just me.  
> [Young and Beautiful-Lana Del Rey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_1aF54DO60)  
> [Crazy in Love-Sophia Karlberg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jl8fV1jUQPs)  
> [Goldfrapp-Ooh La La](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uco-2V4ytYQ)  
> This Hybrid Kitten Stripper Jihoon art is what pushed me to do this. Show it some love.  
> [here](https://twitter.com/jihoonsfw/status/1048985751080206340)

Of all the places Seungcheol has gone in the service of following a mark, this Felid strip club in Seoul is probably one of the  _least_  sleazy.

It’s aptly named _The Pink Panther_ —and is floor to ceiling glittering lights and glass, filled with a dozen Cat-boys in tiny shorts trying too hard.

It’s the kind of place Seungcheol hasn’t been voluntarily in a decade.

Regardless of his own tastes, The Pink Panther appears to have quite a following, judging from the large and enthusiastic crowd and the amount of tequila that is flowing.

That fact doesn’t make Seungcheol any more comfortable about being here of course.

Even though there’s a table of Coyote-Hybrids to his left, a Fox-Hybrid pouring drinks behind the bar and a sign that says the establishment caters to _all_ species, he feels distinctly out of place watching a Brunette Cat-Hybrid strut his stuff on stage.

He’s a literal lone wolf here, and it makes his fingers itch for the gun under his jacket.

He reaches for his drink instead, takes a sobering sip.

The stir-stick the bartender _insisted_ on placing in his glass almost pokes him in the eye. He chuffs and holds the stir-stick in front of his face. It’s a Pink Panther, of course, and by that very fact should never have been allowed to touch twelve-year-old Scotch. Seungcheol had drawn the line at a little umbrella.

He takes another sip and determines, this isn’t twelve-year old Scotch, despite the assurances of the bartender. Seungcheol is certain that what is scorching its way down his throat like turpentine is barely a few months old. This Scotch hasn’t even learned to walk or ride a bike yet, let alone languish in a barrel for twelve lonely years.

He’ll wager a small fortune that it doesn’t even have a passing acquaintance with real Scotch and is most likely the result of a brief affair with a low-class malt whiskey.

Nevertheless, Seungcheol resigns himself to drinking it, wondering if he can succeed in giving himself a lobotomy with the pink panther swizzle-stick.

A tall, tabby tailed Felid dancer saunters by and offers his services.

Seungcheol politely declines and turns his attention with casual disinterest to the stage.

It might not look like it—but he’s _working_. And the while he has no objections to cross-species _relations_ , Felids are _definitely_ not his type.

At least the _mark_ seems to be enjoying himself.

Which is good. Soon he'd be loose-limbed and mentally pliable, and Seungcheol will be able to slide a knife in between his ribs.

Not that he's _going_ to, but it's nice to know the option will be there.

Seungcheol has spent most of the evening not _actually_ enjoying the splendour on stage, but spying on his next target, Takeshi Kato, out of the corner of his eye, watching the man order an extremely expensive bottle of wine as he chuckles with his cohorts.

For a politician, and a Rat-Hybrid, Kato is surprisingly unbothered about being seen in an establishment such as this. Or the fact that he has a Felid’s tongue in his ear.

Seungcheol cringes at the sight and turns his attention back to surveying the room for points of egress. If watching a parade of leather-clad college boys take it all off to the best of eighties techno-pop is what the man wants to do on his final day on earth, that’s fine by Seungcheol.

He won’t begrudge the man a little fun before he puts a bullet in his head.

It would undoubtedly be easier to follow Kato to his hotel room and take care of him there, and far easier to make it look like a suicide, another socialite mixing too many pills and too much booze.

But that isn't Seungcheol's style and he hasn't been hired to make it look like an accident.

Kato’s murder is _supposed_ to send a message.

To whom or what the message is, Seungcheol isn't entirely clear on. Not having that information never affects his work anyway.

The lights dim further, and a sultry male voice comes over the club’s PA system.

“A special treat for you all tonight.”

One of the Feathery looking Hybrids to Seungcheol’s left elbows him in the side and leans closer to whisper.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for. He’s supposed to be extraordinary.”

Seungcheol nods and watches the empty stage.

He rather doubts that. He’s sat through a fair few dances and there really hasn’t been anything special about a single one of the dancers.

Sure, they were attractive enough, and if Seungcheol were any other Werewolf his anatomy might take notice—but beyond the vacuous smiles and the firm bodies, Seungcheol knows there isn’t much there. And he just can’t shake the fact that most of these dancers aren’t here by _choice_. They need money and approval, and figure sex for cash is the next best thing to love.

Seungcheol shakes his head. He wonders when he became so old and cynical.

The stage darkens and Seungcheol can see a figure step through the curtains.

The announcer continues: “Fresh from Busan and on his own in the big city for the first-time--”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. What a gimmick.

“–please give our Kitten a nice warm welcome. But please be gentle, he’s a little bit shy.”

Seungcheol practically snorts into his drink.

 _Shy_?—Yeah right.

A crisp hundred-dollar bill and a dark alley and Seungcheol will bet this _Busan Kitten_ will forget his shyness in a heartbeat.

He twirls his Pink Panther stick in his glass and leans back as the crowd falls into silence.

Maybe after a few more of these, he’ll let them put a little umbrella in his drink. What could it hurt?

Then—the music begins to play.

It's low and slow at first, as intimate as a curl of cigarette smoke in an empty room with rumpled sheets. Then it crescendos as the lights come up slowly to reveal a small, white-haired Felid.

 _Kitten_.

Huh. It’s fitting.

Kitten’s standing with his back to the audience, tail swinging lazily back and forth. When the spotlight settles on him, Seungcheol does a double-take.

This dancer is not the cliché of PVC and fishnets that have come before him. No. He’s wearing black thigh high boots and black lace gloves as tight as skin. There’s a slim black collar with a paw pendant fastened around his neck, and a matching lace corsette, practically begging someone to pull it open.

He can’t be more than nineteen. Probably not even that. His body is lean, athletic, very young, his fingers long, with boy-shorts framing a mouth-watering little bulge that makes Seungcheol’s own prick ache in his trousers.

Seungcheol glances back at Kato, who is laughing heartily at something and pouring himself more liquor, and decides it’s safe to redirect his attention for a few minutes.

Kitten starts to circle his hips, gyrating them slowly as the beat of music builds and builds.

The lace gloves come off first—peeled slowly off then tossed carelessly into the audience. The boots are next, zipper dragged down each leg until Kitten can step free.

It’s all done with the sort of slinkiness that Seungcheol has never seen, turning the routine into more of a burlesque dance than a pornographic strip show. Kitten locks eyes with a random patron in the audience – peering from over his shoulder as he exposes himself inch by inch, as if he’s silently asking the audience whether or not he should continue.

It should look contrived, it should look false and coquettish, but somehow Kitten is able to pull it off. He moves like he’s unwrapping himself, peeling each layer from his skin and taunting the audience with the unknown that lies beneath.

Soon, all thought of escape routes and bullet calibres fade from Seungcheol’s mind as Kitten spins to face his audience, head tipped down.

 _Come on,_ Seungcheol thinks. _Lift your face. Let me see your face, dammit._

As if on cue, Kitten starts to tilt his head back, letting the light fall inch by inch on a face that can only be described as exquisite. Even with the faint tinge of pink colouring his cheeks, it really is the face of an angel.

A slutty, blushing angel with startling grey eyes, perfect cheekbones, and a mouth made for ...

The corsette drops to the floor amidst the din of catcalls.

Seungcheol hadn’t even noticed Kitten unlacing it. But he’s not complaining. Not when his eyes rove over the Felid’s milky white skin, criss-crossed with black leather straps. There’s an inordinately large chain hooked to Kitten’s collar, trailing down the slope of his back and Seungcheol feels a ripple of want nestle somewhere in the pit of his stomach at the thought of curling his fingers around it, pulling it tightly.  

Underneath all the fuss, Kitten is lean and smooth and gorgeous, with just a little pink flush starting across his chest and throat. Seungcheol imagines him on his hands and knees, or down on his belly with his ass raised, his hands fisting the sheets.

As Seungcheol watches, Kitten circles the stage—coming towards the front so the patrons seated there can feel like they can simply reach out and touch him.

When he passes in front of Seungcheol—Seungcheol gets a whiff of his scent and feels the hairs on his arms shiver with interest.  Arousal surges into his blood with the strength of a deluge and he’s shocked to find he’s already hard, dick pressing up and ruining the line of his trousers.

Then their gazes lock and Kitten….. _winks_ at him, his expression sultry and a little smug.

He takes only the smallest of pauses, to make sure Seungcheol is watching, before he moves his hand to his waistband. And Seungcheol  _is_  watching. He’d never look away, not while Kitten's popping the last button, thumbing his fly open and sliding the zipper down.

He’s not bothering to make a show of it anymore because he already knows Seungcheol wants him, wholly and utterly, and then with brisk movements he strips off his shorts and flings them to land on Seungcheol’s face. The little bastard.

Seungcheol struggles – with the shorts, somewhat, but mostly with his urge to leave them where they are, to soak in Kitten’s scent and ignore the traitorous interest warming his stomach. He bites his tongue, then he shakes himself and removes them, privately rolling his eyes at his own sense of melodrama.

By the time he wrestles the shorts off his face, Kitten’s twirling on the pole, tail flicking frantically back and forth over the pale curve of his ass. He’s down to nothing but a thong now—pretty cock encased in black lace and on show.

God—He’s _beautiful_.

It must take a considerable amount of upper body strength to swing himself up on that thing, but Kitten doesn’t break a single bead of sweat. Not even when he hooks his knee around the metal and spirals all the way to the ground with his arms spread wide.

Seungcheol can barely make out the lyrics of the song. It’s drummed out by whistles, applause and offers of marriage ... among other things. 

When his knees hit the stage—Kitten throws his head back, slitted grey eyes narrowing on Seungcheol again, and Seungcheol can’t even breathe he’s so fucking turned on.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips—realizes he’d been sitting there with his mouth half-open. 

As he watches, Kitten lets out a rumbling purr, then crawls forward in a cat-like slink, hips swaying in time with his tail.

Kitten’s headed straight for _him_ —Seungcheol thinks. He’s crawling right towards _him_.

It’s the stuff of a thousand wet dreams and Seungcheol just has to--

Suddenly, there’s a ruckus at the side of the stage.

One of the coyote hybrids from earlier is out of his seat, drunk and overexcited, and eagerly reaching over to grab Kitten’s arm.

Kitten flinches away from his touch, hissing.

The man retreats briefly, only to lunge at him a moment later—seizing Kitten by the arm and dragging him off the stage.

There’s a sound of glass smashing on the floor, a table being overturned, punctuated by a pain-filled mewl.

That pulls Seungcheol out of his stupor and he pushes back in his chair. He’s on his feet before he realizes what’s happening, shoving his way past a small crowd of patrons in the direction of the mewling.  

Kitten is hissing at a man with a death grip on his arm, trying to scratch him, trying to pry his arm free. Someone is yelling for Security—but Seungcheol gets there first.

One thug is shoving Kitten roughly to the floor, trying to climb on top of him—Seungcheol goes for him first. He grabs him by the back of his shirt and drags him off Kitten, then whacks his head against the stage for good measure. He knocks a second snarling hybrid off balance with a well-placed kick to the chest, grabs a third Coyote’s arm and snaps the bone in two places.

He feels a fourth catch his shoulder, and he hauls off with an elbow and shatters the man’s nose.

In less than thirty seconds, the four men are on the floor in various stages of broken.

Seungcheol’s not even breathing hard.

There’s commotion behind him, people cheering and security finally closing in.

Seungcheol ignores it all to step around the body groaning on the floor, stepping on a twitching hand and grinding his heel down, kicking another when he tries to stand. He hears the announcer’s voice calmly reassuring people that the show would go on and that the next round of drinks is on the house, but he only has eyes for one person.

Kitten.

He’s still curled up on the floor, ears pricked up high and tail flicking, pupils impossibly wide as he stares up at Seungcheol.

There’s no mistaking the quiet awe there, and Seungcheol isn’t sure whether it’s unsettling or not.

Three security guards stumble over then—tasers drawn and shouting out orders.

They take one look at him, freeze—then quickly refocus their attention to the thugs still littering the floor.  

“Are you alright?” Seungcheol asks, turning his attention back to Kitten.

Kitten’s clutching at his arm where a row of scratch marks have torn the skin. They’re not very deep, but Seungcheol wants to kick everyone’s ass all over again anyway.

His nose twitches, just a little. “Yeah.”

Seungcheol looks at his ears, twitching and unsure against the tangled strands of his hair; down the naked slope of his back to the tuft of fur where his tail starts. 

He’s so small, practically weightless when Seungcheol leans down and lifts him.

“Up you get.” Seungcheol says, setting Kitten onto his feet.

He pauses when he catches sight of Kato’s empty booth. Dammit.

It’s quite possible that he’s just blown a six figure pay cheque protecting a stripper’s dignity, but right now he doesn’t care. He’ll care later–no doubt when his employer is hammering nails into his knees, but for right now all that matters is getting Kitten to safety.

Kitten puts his hand on Seungcheol’s arm. The touch, even through his shirt is startling. Seungcheol jumps, but Kitten doesn’t take his hand away.

“Thank you, uhm….” He trails off, looking at Seungcheol expectantly.

He wants his name—but now’s not the time.

It’s never going to be the time actually.  

Kitten releases a startled mew as Seungcheol hoists him up to sit on the edge stage, careful not to touch his injured arm.

“Are you the new security guard?” Kitten asks, nodding down at Seungcheol’s jacket.

Seungcheol glances down to where his holster has slipped forward, where his gun is in plain view.

“No.” He grunts, readjusting his jacket quickly.

“Then—who are you?” Kitten asks, ears swivelling forward.

“Nobody.” Seungcheol says flatly.

Kitten just looks at him. His grey eyes are deep and watchful. Seungcheol swallows, a modicum of tension falling away, “It’s not important right now.” He adds, lifting his hand to brush fingers over Kitten’s injured arm.

“You should get that seen to. Don’t want it getting infected.”

The corners of Kitten’s mouth flutter upwards, then he levers himself up on his feet and dashes off the stage into the back rooms. 

It’s only then, with Kitten out of his sight that Seungcheol is able to re-focuses his attention to his surroundings. The sounds of the club wash over him, the clink of glasses and tinny music and booze-slurred voices, business already resuming. 

He can see that another act has taken the second, smaller stage at the other end of the club, drawing the crowds away.

The buzz of the brawl has died down and he should get out while he can, considering he just assaulted four men, has a recently fired illegal weapon in his holster and another strapped to his ankle. The three passports in his jacket pocket might _also_ raise a few eyebrows.

 _Yeah_. Leaving is essential.

Spinning on his heels, he heads for the back exit. The crowd has made a space for him, staring as he walks among them like some kind of _alien_.

Someone pats him on the back and Seungcheol turns his head to see a man giving him a thumbs up

“Nice one dude.”

He grimaces.

_Yes. Great. Thank you._

_Try and forget what I look like._

No one else tries to stop him as he darts past, but as he approaches the back exit Seungcheol catches sight of a tall man in a dark suit gliding towards him.

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. He knows management when he sees it and the last thing he needs right now is for some pencil pusher trying to pry details off him.

“Excuse me sir--” The man begins, blocking his exit.

“Get out of my way or I’ll _make_ you.” Seungcheol says, clipped and aggressive.

He'd rather not have to shoot someone given that he's made himself all too memorable to people in the immediate vicinity, but he will if he has to.

“Woah—hey. I’m not looking for a fight big guy.” The man says, holding his hands up.

His eyes flicker over Seungcheol, unblinking as a lizard, before the slight tension around his shoulders vanishes and he favours Seungcheol with a slight but genuine smile.

“I’m Yoon Jeonghan, the _manager_ —I just wanted to thank you for stepping in back there. It’s not something we usually expect from a patron—but I’m glad you did.”

“It’s nothing.” Seungcheol replies with a half-smile of his own. He’s uncomfortable with the man’s sudden, easy demeanour. Not the response he was expecting; it feels like a trap. “Those guys were out of line—they got what was coming to them.”

“Agreed.” Jeonghan nods, clapping Seungcheol on the shoulder. “We’ve got security, but they can’t be everywhere at once. And when those Coyotes group up like that—It can get dangerous real quick for the dancers. I appreciate the help.”

“It’s fine.” Seungcheol says flatly, trying to edge towards the exit.

“Is everything alright?” Jeonghan says seriously, voice quiet and concerned, smile somewhat more careful. He doesn't move out of the way, and Seungcheol wonders whether it would be rude to throat-punch him and run. “You seem to be in a rush to leave. I hope you don’t think we’re calling the cops over this scuffle or anything. Like you said—those guys had what was coming to them.”

Seungcheol attempts a smile. “No. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just the atmosphere is a little _overwhelming_ in there now, and everyone’s staring. I’m a man who appreciates discretion—if you know what I mean.”

Jeonghan smile widens, gaining a cocky, mischievous edge that instantly makes Seungcheol wary.

He tries to step back when Jeonghan moves closer, but is prevented from doing so when Jeonghan catches his arm and pulls him in.

“Fair enough. But perhaps you’d like to make use of one of our VIP rooms instead—on the house of course. It’s private and very _discreet_ —and I know Jihoonie here would like to _repay_ his hero.” He says, gesturing behind them.

Seungcheol turns his head to find the Kitten, _Jihoon_ apparently—fidgeting anxiously in the corridor.  

There’s a Hello Kitty band-aid on his arm now, over the scratches. An incongruously wholesome addition to his barely there outfit.

Seungcheol just can’t stop himself from giving Jihoon one, slow once over.

When their eyes meet, the kitten smirks. The look in his eyes is warm and amused, but also calculating, like he has _plans_ for Seungcheol.

“Hi.” Jihoon says, waving his tail at him. “Wanna dance?”

Oh, _god_.

Shaking his head to clear it, Seungcheol turns back towards Jeonghan.

“That’s….” _Really fucking tempting. I would love to. Here—hold my gun,_ “….unnecessary. Anyone would have done the same. Now, if you don’t mind. I really gotta go.” He says, shoving past Jeonghan and out the door.

* * *

 

As the cab pulls under the hotel’s port-cochere, Seungcheol goes over the plan one more time.

He doesn’t want to burn another perfectly good identity leaving the country to hide his tracks, so he’s switching it up a little.

He’s got one more chance at this, provided Kato hasn’t already packed his begs and checked out. He still has time to finish the job and check in, and his client will be none the wiser.

 _No distractions this time_ —Seungcheol thinks, as he pays the driver.

He enters the hotel lobby and goes to the front desk, holds up his phone in a charmingly helpless way, and tells the young Mouse Hybrid at the desk that he’s just been cut off in his conversation with Mr. Kato. Takeshi Kato, yes. Could she connect him on the hotel line?

She could, and she does.

A couple is waiting behind him. He steps to the side, elaborately polite. Very gentlemanly, very accommodating. It gives him an angle on the phone, beneath the counter. While she takes the couple to the far side of the desk, he reads the room line number. 1245.

The line rings and rings, no answer. He doesn’t expect any. Kato left with one of the dancers on his arm. He will no doubt have disconnected the telephone line to prevent any _interruptions_.

When the desk clerk comes back, Seungcheol holds up the receiver with a shrug.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Thanks,” he says. “If you can tell him Kim Seungmin called, please. At my work phone. He has the number.”

He lifts a key card from the back pocket of a man struggling with two suitcases and a stroller and takes the farthest elevator from the desk. In case the young woman at the desk is watching him, still smiling in that receptive, beguiling, beguiled way.

The elevator is mirrored and silent. He smooths his hair, considers the state of his shirt, wonders if Kato’s guest is still there—if he’s going to have to shoot one or two people tonight.

* * *

 

Kato’s chosen a good place to hide his unsavoury nature.

Room 1245 is the last room at the end of the hall, separated from the next one by a little alcove. There’s an emergency stairwell a couple of doors down. It gives the slightly ominous impression of a place of last resort—a kind of posh, anonymous entrenchment.

Seungcheol shucks of his jacket a few steps back, drapes it over his arm, and holds his gun in that hand. With the other, he knocks lightly.

There’s silence. Then, very softly, a footstep just inside the door. It kicks his heart up, even though he’s been expecting it.

The door swings open and Takeshi Kato stands there. He’s wearing the same white shirt and dark trousers from the club, though now the shirt’s untucked, and the zipper is down and he’s holding a glass full of amber liquid in his hand.  

“ _Yes_?” Kato prompts when Seungcheol smiles at him.

Seungcheol’s eyes dart around the empty space just over the man’s shoulder.

It’s a double room, not a suite but the next best thing, with a corner view out over the city, mostly obscured by blackout curtains. There’s a couch and armchairs, a bar by the window. There’s one lamp lit, on the table next to rumpled bed.

Seungcheol can’t see anyone else here, but he can _hear_ the sound of the shower running in the next room.

 _Perfect_.

He fires two shots through his jacket. One through Kato’s head—the other through his chest. The quiet pop of the silencer further muffled through the fabric of his jacket.

Kato falls backwards to the floor, glass tumbler slipping out of his hand and thudding quietly on the thick carpet.

In the bathroom, the sound of the shower shuts off—then Kato’s guest calls out. “What was that noise?”

Seungcheol unscrews his silencer, carefully wraps his gun in his jacket. It’s got two bullet holes in it now—he’ll have to destroy it.

“It’s nothing, just dropped my drink.” He answers on Kato’s behalf—since the man himself won’t be able to.

The shower turns back on a moment later, and Seungcheol pulls the door shut behind him as he leaves.   

* * *

 

When Seungcheol returns to his hotel room, he clinically takes off his clothes and folds them, fishes around for his sweatpants and pulls them on.

It’s a luxury hotel room – a suite with a couple of rooms, so it sort of feels somewhat like a home. There’s a decent room service menu, a 24-hour gym, and a luxury spa with a masseuse on call if he so desired.

Most conveniently—it’s close to the airport.

Seungcheol is content, and he doesn't think about the money it’s costing him because _this_ is what his life has become – hotels and room service and revelling in those few hours when he can just relax.

He lies down on top of the covers, puts his arm over his eyes, and tries to sleep.

He’s been having trouble lately. Sleep doesn’t come unless he’s thoroughly exhausted himself.

Sitting up, he switches on the television instead, scrolls through the channels, past storage units and alligators and Congressional testimonies and miracles of weight loss. Then maybe he goes a little nuts and whips out his wallet, pays for cheap pay-per-view porn.

It’s been a long day. He deserves it.

There are plenty of wacky titles on offer, but he narrows down his options based on his current desire and settles for ‘Felid Frenzy 3: Felids in Heat’.

He hasn’t seen Felid Frenzy 1 or 2 yet, but _somehow_ —he doesn’t think it will matter.

He tries to tell himself it’s purely intellectual curiosity—a desire to know all the details—but in actuality he’s just glad there’s nobody around he has to fool into _believing_ that.

It turns out to be a ridiculous movie, with zero plot—not that he expected one of course. It’s filled with desperate Felid Hybrids waving their asses on camera, begging to be filled. It _shouldn’t_ turn him on, but when he squints _just_ right, he can picture a small, white haired Felid in their place and it works a treat.

Heat rises in his groin, in his chest. He shoves his hand under the waistband of his sweatpants and jerks off with his teeth biting into his lower lip. He sees Jihoon in the darkness behind his eyes, dancing on stage, outlined in gold and red. He imagines Jihoon beneath him, face down—ass up, tail swaying lazily. Jihoon sinking down on his cock, flushed, _mewling_.

Seungcheol’s never come so fast on his own hand before, and when he’s done, sleep descends like a sledgehammer.

* * *

 

The next day Seungcheol cleans and checks his weapons, makes preparations for leaving the country in a hurry, and generally does what he always does as the end of a job approaches.

By 7:00pm, his bags are packed and waiting in the entryway.

By 9:00 pm Kim Seungmin will be checking out of the hotel, and by 10:30 Kwon Sehun will be on a flight to Japan.

Another mark, another job, another pay cheque.

Everything’s in order—so it’s understandable that the knock on the door startles him.

He checks his phone: it’s 7:10pm.

His clients are twenty minutes early for the exchange.

Twenty minutes is nothing in the scheme of things, but _still_.

Seungcheol sniffs the air, then stiffens. Whoever’s on the other side of the door smells like honey and vanilla and very fine poplin. _Not_ the Jackal Hybrid he was expecting.

He stands up feeling prickly, almost woozy and approaches the door slowly, taking the time to tuck his gun in the back of his waistband as he peers through the peephole.

He reels back in surprise at the sight that greets him.

Kitten, _Jihoon_ or whatever, is standing there, fidgeting in the hallway.

He looks simultaneously uncertain and determined, narrow frame standing immediately taller when Seungcheol throws open the door.

“Hi--”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Seungcheol interjects before Jihoon can get a word in.

Jihoon scans the room and then Seungcheol’s face. He blinks, “Can I come in?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, but it’s dry. He wets his lips. “No.”

The Kitten pouts. “Meow?”

_Dammit. Shit. Fuck. Ass._

Try as he might, Seungcheol can’t say no to that.

Clenching his jaw, he steps back from the door. Jihoon comes in, and stops just inside the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Seungcheol’s can’t stop looking at him, at the line of his jaw and the curves of his lips, at the lean shape of his torso still evident despite the shirt that is slightly too big for him, at the way his fringe falls over his forehead in tousled curls.

His emotions are oscillating so wildly between arousal and anger that he’s beginning to feel quite seasick.

“I came to thank you.” Jihoon says without preamble. “I get pawed at a lot, and nobody’s ever stuck up for me like that. None of the patrons anyway. It was really sweet of you.”

Seungcheol lets out a forced breath. “You’re welcome."

Jihoon shoots him another quick look, this one grateful. “I know you didn’t have time earlier. Or maybe you just didn’t want a free dance from a Felid.” His gaze drops to Seungcheol’s mouth, and stays there, “But maybe you want something _else_ from me?”

 _Fuck_ —Seungcheol thinks.

He’d just jerked off thinking about this Felid earlier, and now Jihoon is here, pale and lithe and gorgeous, his eyes downcast, standing in Seungcheol’s room in the middle of the night, offering sex. _Asking_ for it, if Seungcheol reads between the lines.

Seungcheol takes a deep breath and tries to make sense of what Jihoon is saying. Something doesn’t add up.

“What did—where—how did you know where to find me?” Seungcheol says urgently. His brain is having trouble ordering itself.

Jihoon leans his hip against a nearby table, his arms crossed across his chest. “I had an expenditure alert placed on the card you used at the bar. So when you paid for pay per view porn, the charge pinged up with the address of your hotel. It was just a matter of waiting in the lobby till you showed up.”

Seungcheol starts. “What? How do you even know how to _do_ that?”

Jihoon shrugs, averting his eyes. “I work part time at a bank when I’m not stripping. I work in the fraud department, so I do this kind of thing all the time.” He looks back towards Seungcheol and tilts his head, baring the points of his canines and incisors in a parody of a smile. “It’s just _this_ time I had ulterior motives.”

Seungcheol tries to decide how to take that, then the alarm on his phone interrupts his train of thought.  

“Shit—shit.” He hisses frantically, “You can’t be here. You gotta go!”

Jihoon blinks, cat ears angled forward, “What? _Why_?”

Seungcheol drags the hotel door open and starts to drag Jihoon out, heedless of the way the Kitten hisses at him, ears flattening against his head. “Hey—what gives asshole!”

At the other end of the corridor, he hears the elevator ding. Another change of plans.

“Shit!” Seungcheol hisses, and hauls Jihoon back into the room again.

Jihoon looks startled, then uncertain. “Oh, so _now_ you want me to stay?”

"Shut up.” Seungcheol snaps, shutting the door and crowding the Kitten against the wall. He lowers his voice to barely a whisper. “Listen very carefully. You have _one_ minute to get in the bathroom and pretend to be invisible or we’re going to have problems."  

Alarm slips across Jihoon’s face. "Wait, what? Who--"

Seungcheol shushes him gently, hands coming up to cup his face, "The gentlemen I’m meeting are expecting me alone. They’re _not_ very nice people. If they find you here it will look like a set up. So either you play along, or you ruin those pretty little hands digging our graves in the desert, your call."

Jihoon’s shaking his head, looking almost—afraid, Seungcheol decides.

Then his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

"Who _are_ you?"

Seungcheol gives him a flat, baleful stare, pulls the gun out from behind his back, slaps it down on the entryway table, and points to the bathroom door.

Jihoon takes one look at it, then back to Seungcheol, then quickly disappears into the bathroom.

Seungcheol places the rest of his weapons on the table in plan sight, puts the sterling silver corkscrew provided by the hotel on the bar, within easy reach and smooths out his shirt.

He can talk his way out of almost anything, but Jihoon, extraordinarily capable by any standard, is not exactly built for certain types of subterfuge. Seungcheol isn’t entirely certain how easy it will be to explain away his presence.

In the bathroom, the water goes on and then back off; Seungcheol rolls his shoulders and sighs just as there’s a knock on the door.

* * *

 

There are three Hybrid Jackals arriving for the drop off, all armed, all ugly—not impossible odds, but not good ones, either. 

"Is there a problem?" Seungcheol says, when they finally do find Jihoon in the bathroom and pull him out.

The guy gripping Jihoon’s arm smirks nastily, “Yeah—you said you’d be _alone_ , but look what the cat dragged in.”

"Hey—ow," Jihoon says, a sharp little intake of breath at his rough handling. Then, when the guy shoves him forward, he lets out an honest-to-goodness mewl.

The sound makes Seungcheol’s ears twitch. Another mewl, and another second later, they stand stiffly _up_ and _out_ of his hair.

 _Fuck_.

He really must be getting soft in his old age to respond so eagerly to that _noise_. Or maybe he’s just responding to Jihoon, and the way he’s playing the small and innocent card like a fucking pro.

Jihoon’s really dialled it up with his change in outfit too. He’s barefoot now, wearing underwear—some little tight cotton boy-shorts, with a little hole for his little tail—and a crumpled, dark navy shirt, half-unbuttoned, slipping off one shoulder.

Seungcheol can’t think, at first, of where Jihoon might have been hiding an extra shirt, and then feels a hot shock of recognition; it’s _his_ fucking shirt, left on the bathroom floor before he showered earlier this afternoon.  

"Who’s this then?" The Lead Jackal asks, taking a seat.

He’s a short man with broad shoulders and a scar on his face that makes it look like someone tried to chew his right ear off.

In fact, someone probably  _did_  try to chew his ear off. Seungcheol’s marks aren’t the only people Seungcheol does strenuous research on, and he knows this man has spent more than his fair share of time behind bars. The cheap suit he’s wearing hides the gang tattoos over his arms, but one peeks out of the collar of his shirt, a single line of fading ink.

“Hmm. Very…. _pretty_. He must be quite the distraction.” The Lead Jackal drawls, lounging back in the armchair and giving Jihoon an oily once-over.

Seungcheol resists the urge to clench his fist.

Glancing across the room, he counts the steps to the table where he’d left his gun.

It’s too far.

A split-second decision finds Seungcheol straightening up and approaching the Kitten instead. “He’s my _entertainment_ for tonight, okay?” He says, fitting his hand gingerly around the Kitten’s waist.

Jihoon stumbles forward against him, somehow compressing his spine enough to bury his face in Seungcheol’s chest.

“Come here, kitten, no one’s going to hurt you," He coos. To the room at large, he says, "can’t blame me for mixing a little pleasure with my business, can you? Work hard—play hard, ya know."

Everyone seems to agree that’s the case.

Except Jihoon—who’s staring up at him a little saucer eyed, ears twitching anxiously atop his head.

“I—"

"Shh, now," Seungcheol says, pressing a finger gently to his lips. "It’s okay now. You’re fine." He cups his hand around the back of Jihoon’s neck and a few tendrils of Jihoon’s hair curl softly over his thumb. "Do you want to stay in the bedroom until we’re done or stay with me?" he says.

Jihoon turns his head, rubbing his cheek against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

The suite is sparsely furnished, open plan, sleek and modern; there’s no cover between the bedroom and the lounge area, so Seungcheol’s relieved when Jihoon whispers. "With you, please."

* * *

 

Jihoon stays close, half hiding behind Seungcheol until they sit down, and then curls himself up, tucked against Seungcheol’s side into the corner of the couch.

Seungcheol doesn’t get distracted when he’s working, so he doesn’t pay attention to Jihoon—the way he tips his head against the back of the couch as he watches Seungcheol count stacks of money in an open suitcase, the anxious fidgeting of his tail, the soft look on his face, the sleek, narrow shape of his body beneath the loose shirt.

 _Yeah_ …..

He’s definitely not paying attention to any of that.

“Everything in order?” The Lead Jackal asks, wetting his lips on a glass of whiskey.

Seungcheol nods, shutting the briefcase with a click. “Yeah. It’s all there.”

The lead Jackal’s answering smile is not friendly in the least. Slowly, he reaches over and drags the case across the table— _away_ from Seungcheol.

“And it’s all yours— _just_ as soon as you let me have a go on that sweet little thing.” He leers.

Seungcheol goes still.

He’s staring at the lead Jackal icily, his hands loose on his knees; he hasn’t looked at Jihoon once yet. He _can’t_.

“No.”

The Lead Jackal raises an eyebrow at him, looking mildly entertained. Then he shifts his gaze to Jihoon, shows yellow teeth in his direction.

Seungcheol watches the way Jihoon’s tail stiffens and stops himself partway through forming a fist, forcing his fingers to unclench. The Lead Jackal catches the aborted gesture, though, and makes no move to hide his delight at making Seungcheol lose a little bit of his cool.

“Why not? I thought he was just tonight’s _entertainment_?”

“He is.” Seungcheol says, no longer bothering to keep the anger out of his voice “But the night’s not over yet. You can’t have him, cause I still haven’t finished with him.”

The Lead Jackal exchanges a sleazy look with his two cohorts. “Fuck that.” He scoffs, then gestures at Jihoon. “Take him into the room. Think I’ll have a go anyway—bet I can make him _scream_.”

Jihoon mewls next to him—it’s shaky and heavy with fear.

In one quick movement, Seungcheol grabs the corkscrew from the table and slashes the closest Jackal’s throat. Blood gouts out, soaking the man’s suit and Seungcheol's sleeves. The second Jackal is already moving, but Seungcheol is faster.

He flips the corkscrew in his palm and brings it down through the Jackal’s skull. The man chokes, gargles, twitches—then drops to the floor. The silver handle of the corkscrew sticking out of his head.

Seungcheol looks up at the Lead Jackal, who’s staring at him open-mouthed. He looks almost comically stunned. 

The man tries to go for his gun, and Seungcheol intercepts him easily. Taking it away, he’s careful to break the man’s trigger finger. The snap is sickening and wonderful. Then he tosses the gun away across the floor, grabs the Jackal by the front of his horrible tight-buttoned shirt, and hauls him into the air.

Dangling there, blood caking his face, spit hanging from his lips, fear in his eyes, the man croaks, “Please—”

Seungcheol’s vision goes red around the edges, “I said _no_!”—he snarls.

* * *

 

Seungcheol comes back to the world in stages.

The stench of blood and bile assaults his nose.

Slowly, the redness in his eyes fades, leaving him standing there breathing hard while blood seeps from the ruins of the Lead Jackal’s head into the beige carpet.

The man is sprawled on the floor by the foot of table. His head is in several distinct pieces.

If there’s a call from the front desk about the noise, it’s because Seungcheol bashed the man’s head against the floor enough times for it to crack open.

Jihoon’s still seated on the couch, but he’s looking out towards the window, away from all the slaughter. He’s breathing strangely. Fast and shallow, as if he’s controlling it tightly. When he finally tilts his head in Seungcheol’s direction, his pupils have blown wide, his lips are wet and pink.

“Get dressed and get out.” Seungcheol tells him, feeling strangely numb and hollow.

Jihoon unfolds himself from the couch in one quick, efficient movement and starts towards the bathroom.

“I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you tell anyone.” Seungcheol says to his retreating back.

He regrets the threat the minute it’s out of his mouth, but it’s too late to take it back.

Jihoon darts a glance at him over his shoulder, but says nothing.

Seungcheol grabs a towel hanging over the back of the chair and wipes his face—makes a mental note to destroy it, along with his shirt; Jackal blood has soaked into the collar.

Jesus—it’s soaked into _everything_.

He’s going to have to hire a clean-up crew for the mess, like some kind of fucking amateur. That will no doubt chip off a good chunk of the money he’s made for this job. And now he’s going to miss his flight—delay his _next_ job.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Seungcheol growls and runs a hand through his hair, over his face.

He wants a shower and a wank and a steak, in that order.

No. Scratch that. He wants _Jihoon_ —the reason he’s in this fucking mess in the first place.

The Lead Jackal’s dead eyes stare up at him from the floor, taunting him. Seungcheol tosses the towel over his face, then moves to pull the blankets off the bed, covers the other two bodies as well.

When Jihoon finally steps out of the bathroom, he’s dressed in the clothes he came in—covered head to toe, but no less tempting.

He hesitates as he passes by Seungcheol.

“Will I see you again?” He whispers.

“ _No_.” Seungcheol answers sharply.

He can’t believe the Kitten’s still interested after everything that’s happened.

Still, Jihoon doesn’t move. He stands staring at Seungcheol with a strange, sad little expression. Then he steps forward, stands on his tip-toes and kisses Seungcheol gently on the mouth.

It’s strange and new and almost overwhelming, the touch of Jihoon’s lips. His taste, his smell. Seungcheol feels a taut, panicky flutter in the base of his throat. He’s standing there stiff as a mannequin, he knows it. He jerked off thinking of this guy last night, his ass, his thighs, his _lips_.

And here he stands, frozen solid with fear. What a farce.

Jihoon feels his stiffness and pulls back. With one hand he touches Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says. “I just really—” He pauses, eyes dancing across Seungcheol’s face. “Kim Seungmin isn’t your _real_ name, is it?”

“Get—out.” Seungcheol bites back.

Jihoon flinches at his tone, expression shuttering as he steps back. He hesitates a moment longer, then turns and leaves.  

Seungcheol waits until the door clicks shut behind him to release a pitiful whine.  

* * *

 

The nice thing about being in the business of death is that you have connections. Seungcheol doesn’t know of a clean-up crew in the area, but he knows a guy who knows a guy—who knows not to ask questions. No more than thirty minutes after he’s placed the call, there’s a knock on the door.

He answers it to find three guys in hotel staff uniforms standing there, a room service trolley parked behind them.

It’s a good cover, even if Seungcheol immediately sees through it to the slightly bulky underarms and the little translucent coils leading from their ears down into their collars.

He feels sheepish as he allows them entrance to survey the room; you only need a clean-up crew if you’re lousy at your job.

“Jesus,” The tallest one gasps, pulling a blood-soaked sheet off the nearest body. He slaps on a pair of latex gloves and grins over his shoulder at his accomplice. “Remind me never to piss off a Wolf.”

One of them, the front man apparently, frowns at Seungcheol’s face.

“You injured?”

Seungcheol glances down and gets his first really good look at himself. His suit is a tacky, blood-soaked mess, white shirt and waistcoat awash with dark crimson. “No. It’s all theirs.”

Then man gives him a critical look, from head to toe, and jerks his head. "You should probably shower."

Seungcheol hesitates momentary, "I was going to wait till you guys finished."

The man compresses his lips together and shakes his head. "Do it now. We’ll need to take your clothes too."

Seungcheol nods, then strips down to his boxers in the middle of the room.

The man picks up his clothes, rolls them up, and passes the bundle to another guy, who has a plastic bag ready and waiting. The third guy is already moving through the room, picking up the little signs of Seungcheol's residence—a bloodied tissue from the waste basket, the towel he'd used to dry off, the extra glasses on the coffee table.

It all goes into the plastic bag, and the top is tied off tightly.

Seungcheol watches them work for a few minutes, then grabs a fresh towel and heads to the bathroom.

* * *

 

Just one more time—Seungcheol tells himself, as the taxi slows and then stops outside _The Pink Panther._

He doesn’t want to consider how many ways that this is a bad idea. How the world has turned upside-down in the space of a few hours over one guy. But he still finds himself walking through the front doors, loitering in the main room with his eyes glued on the stage.

There’s a dancer up there entertaining the crowd. Lovely, certainly, but it's not Jihoon.

Seungcheol contemplates taking a seat at the bar—ordering some more definitely _not-scotch_ and waiting him out, but he knows he shouldn’t. At last he has to admit to himself that he’s wasting time, lingering in the club like a teenaged boy hanging around his crush’s locker in hopes of being noticed.

He’s made his bed—and he damned well better lie in it.

He’s back in the corridor and heading for the exit, when a man's voice breaks through his meandering thoughts. 

“ _Well, well_ —look who’s back.”  

Seungcheol barely stops himself from reaching for a gun he isn't carrying.

There’s no cause for concern, it turns out. It’s just the club owner again, standing in his way— _again_.

“Finally come to claim your free dance?” Jeonghan chirps, prepared it seems to carry the conversation on his own for the moment.

“No, I just wanted to check in on Jihoon, but I couldn’t see him on stage. Perhaps you could pass on a message.” Seungcheol says, his smile brittle.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes a little, making Seungcheol feel pinned by his gaze.

“Pass it on yourself.” He smirks, jerking his head to a spot over Seungcheol’s shoulder.

The back of Seungcheol’s neck prickles, and his ears twitch forward, but he doesn’t turn at once. He waits until Jeonghan’s stepped back inside the main room, before turning to look at Jihoon.

The Kitten’s leaning against the wall behind him, dressed casually in dark jeans and a blue-and-white striped shirt that stretches over his pale and lovely collarbones. His arms are crossed, and his lips are pursed and he’s looking every bit like a kid who’s been called to the principal’s office.

Seungcheol has always worked for long stretches, job after job, habit from when he had no choice, needed the money or couldn’t risk offending any of his carefully cultivated contacts by turning any of them down, worked until his head is too crowded with all the people he’s had to be and then fucked off for weeks at a time, traveling, drinking too much, screwing beautiful boys and girls in expensive hotel rooms, until he knows it’s only himself again, until he’s alone.

He has spent most of his life avoiding people—deliberately. No one moves as much as he does to keep up with the old home crowd—and so the squeeze of pleasure he feels from seeing Jihoon again comes as a surprise. Not an unwelcome one.

“Thought you said I wouldn’t see you again?” Jihoon says quietly, and Seungcheol realizes he’s let the silence go too long.

He’s just been standing there— _staring_.

They’re still standing a few feet apart, Seungcheol notices. He puts out his hand and runs it up Jihoon’s arm--a ridiculous gesture, old-world seduction, but it feels like the right first step.

Jihoon looks at his hand, then at him. Then before Seungcheol knows it, Jihoon’s grabbing his hand and leading him down a dark narrow corridor, through the back of the club.  

“Jihoon. _Listen_ \--” Seungcheol begins to protest as Jihoon pulls him into a snug little padded room strewn with cushions. He pauses to let his eyes sweep the room, scoping on instinct and evaluating the space in a matter of seconds.

Lack of colour aside, the room is sickeningly ostentatious. A heatless fire crackles in a corner beneath an ornate mantle, antique lamps shine against the walls, and is that a canopy bed?

The door slams shut and draws Seungcheol's attention back, hard and sudden, to the Kitten now blocking his exit.

Jihoon’s eyes are dark, liquid dark, the pupils almost swallowing the grey of his irises entirely, and Seungcheol feels all his arguments shrivelling to ash in the heat of that stare.

Still, he feels the need to explain himself.

“Like I told your boss,” Seungcheol continues evenly. “I didn’t come here for a dance. I don’t want to be repaid for anything, I just wanted to--”

“Check up on _me_?” Jihoon finishes for him, brow arching.

Seungcheol swallows with difficulty. “Uh—yeah.”

Jihoon’s nostrils flare, ears pulling back to lie flat against his head. He puts a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder and puts all that wiry strength to use, shoving Seungcheol back to fall onto the couch.

Seungcheol finds himself blinking up at the ceiling, startled, with a very pissed off looking Kitten Hybrid standing over him.

“Good—you should! Because, _honestly_ , you were kind of a jerk earlier.” Jihoon snaps, tail swiping angrily in the air behind him.

“I’m—” Seungcheol starts, his heartrate spiking as Jihoon sinks down to his knees before him and begins working at his belt.

“But I’ll forgive you,” Jihoon continues, anger melting away as quickly as it had appeared. “Cause I’ve had time to think about it and I realised your cold ass attitude and even your _threat_ was some weird form of protection. You were trying to protect me—from _you_. Which is sweet, in some way. Yeah—yeah. You’re a big bad wolf, I get it—and I don’t care. I don’t care what you do for a living, you’re here now and I’m going to suck your dick.” He says, mouth twitching in delight when he sees Seungcheol suck in a breath at the words. 

Seungcheol pictures it vividly: Jihoon’s mouth, red and slick, gliding over the head of his cock, his face flushed, his pretty pink fingers gripping the shaft.

He lets out a groan, low and pained, from deep in his throat. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jihoon’s eyes met his and Seungcheol sees the determination there. There’s a line carved between his eyes, a furrow of irritation and impatience and probably anger.

“I know I don’t have to do anything” Jihoon says, fumbling with Seungcheol’s zipper now, dragging it down. “But I _want_ this, so will you please shut up and stop pretending to be one of those anti cross-species _traditionalists_. Cause we both know it’s not working for you.”

“Jesus. What? I’m n-not.” Seungcheol fumbles—his voice isn’t quite steady. “I’m not a traditionalist.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Jihoon laughs quietly and shuffles his knees in closer, pushing Seungcheol’s knees apart. “I didn’t think you were anyway. A traditionalist wouldn’t be caught dead watching _‘Felid Frenzy 3: Felids in Heat’._ Which, by the way—is the cheesiest title ever. I hope you enjoyed it, you dirty _dog_.”

Seungcheol flushes at the unexpected reminder. 

Jihoon smile is amused, but not meanly so.

“It wasn’t like that. It was for educational purposes….” The argument dies unresolved on Seungcheol’s tongue, because in the next second, Jihoon is freeing his flushed cock from the confines of his dark briefs and curling his fingers around it.

Seungcheol gasps something unintelligible, eyes falling closed and head dropping back with a thump.

"Hmm—” Jihoon moans, sliding the head along the seam of his lips, tongue darting out to lap _kittenishly_. “I knew you’d be big," He purrs, then closes his lips around the head.

Seungcheol arches—unable to stop himself from thrusting up, but Jihoon takes it easily, gazing up at him through his lashes with a smug look he’s beginning to know too well.

That first slide of wet heat almost undoes him. Jihoon’s willing mouth is pure pleasure around him, tight and hot and absolutely perfect and Seungcheol needs to stop him right now before he comes in his mouth.

It’s probably one of the best blowjobs Seungcheol’s ever had.

He reflects on that, sporadically, while it’s happening.

The noises he’s making are too whiny to be dignified, but Jihoon doesn’t really give him a choice. His hands are strong and clever, his mouth soft and hot, and he uses them both together, feeling around for the right rhythm.

Seungcheol tries to cooperate, to keep his thrusts shallow and slow until Jihoon can get warmed up.

Within a couple of minutes, though, he’s starting to fray.

Jihoon’s face is a mess of spit and precome, his lips stretched obscenely around Seungcheol's substantial girth, but he still manages to throw him a few wry smiles as his head bobs in Seungcheol’s lap.

Seungcheol’s fingers tangle absently in his hair, petting his ears, bemused by how tentative he is to touch the other man when his dick is currently housed in Jihoon’s throat. The blonde locks beneath his fingers are the softest thing he’s ever felt. He wants to bury his face in it and breathe deeply. Then he has to dig his heels into the carpet when Jihoon swallows him all the way down and purrs.

The wet sounds of Jihoon struggling to swallow should not turn Seungcheol on even more fiercely, but he has no other explanation for the way arousal winds tighter at the base of his spine with every choke and splutter.

“Oh—fuck, I’m gonna—” Seungcheol squeezes Jihoon’s shoulder in the universal warning, but Jihoon just slips free and sits back on his heels, grinning.

It’s a smug, self-satisfied grin.  

"What?” Seungcheol says, dazed and annoyed. He can’t decide if Jihoon is fucking with him or not.

"What do you mean _what_?” Jihoon says, wrapping his hand around the base of Seungcheol’s dick and _squeezing_.

It’s just pressure now, useless pressure and no friction. Seungcheol’s erection flags as Jihoon’s fingers feel more than a little uncomfortable wrapped tightly as they are. 

"That’s better.” Jihoon purrs as he surveys his handiwork: Seungcheol’s cock half hard in his palm. “Can’t have you coming in the first five minutes now, can I— _big boy_. Want to play with you all night.”

The thought nearly causes him sob in despair, but Seungcheol ends up groaning instead as Jihoon sinks his mouth down again, plush and hot and messy.

Jihoon continues to edge him for the better part of 30 minutes, bringing him to the brink again and again, only to draw back at the last second and forcing him to wind down.

As Seungcheol’s orgasm edges closer by impatient degrees, he finds it more difficult to control his thrusts.

Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind, and he keeps his eyes are stubbornly open as Seungcheol uses his mouth. They close tight and sudden whenever Seungcheol's cock drives too deep, hitting the back of his throat and making him choke. But they always open again a moment later. Determined and gratified. As though whatever use Seungcheol is making of him, Jihoon intends to make  _damn sure_  he knows who’s in control here.

They continue like this until Seungcheol is sweating, until his thighs feel weak and he’s rocking into Jihoon’s mouth and hand mindlessly. Then he gropes blindly for Jihoon’s shoulder.

“Fuck—please— _please_.” He begs, barely aware of the words escaping under his breath. He doesn’t care what he looks like, what Jihoon thinks of him, how Jihoon has control of him and will forever know what it takes to make him lose control. He just wants more.

Jihoon pulls off and sits back easily on his heels. One hand still resting on Seungcheol’s dick, the fingers a loose circle just under the head.

“Wanna come?” he says, the prior playfulness now replaced by a husky whisper.

They’re both panting now. The room suddenly feels unbearably warm.

Seungcheol doesn’t understand what he means at first; all he can think about is the way Jihoon’s fingers are toying with his foreskin, and how he wants them to fucking move. Then Jihoon readjusts his grip and squeezes hard to get his attention.

“Do you want to come puppy?” He repeats.

The action forces a breathy exhale from Seungcheol, then a _growl_ as Jihoon pulls his foreskin back, his thumb continuing to stroke tantalizing circles, picking up precome and smearing it along his cock.

“ _Yes_.”

Jihoon smirks, tail flexing back and forth over his thigh. “Good boy.”

He gives Seungcheol a last couple of strokes, slower now. Almost friendly. Then releases him and stands.

“Bed’s this way,” He purrs, before pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor, his back smooth and perfect.

He glances over his shoulder once before undoing his shorts and pushing them straight down, taking his underwear with him, leaving him completely naked.

Seungcheol swallows, taking in the firm, round ass and slim hips. Watching the dimples above Jihoon’s ass as he strolls to the bed, Seungcheol decides that if this is going to be a short-lived affair, he’s going to enjoy anything he can get.

He doesn’t hesitate to follow Jihoon’s lead, stripping off his clothes and toeing off his shoes in record time.

He isn't sure what’s going to happen, not even sure he _knows_ what he wants. And that, paradoxically, is what he wants: to let go of deliberation, to forget everything but whatever comes to his animal self.

Carefully, he moves up behind the Kitten, tilting his head down to press a hot open-mouthed kiss to Jihoon’s nape.

He hears Jihoon’s quick intake of breath, feels his shoulders hike as Seungcheol’s fingertips find his narrow waist.

Jihoon’s head falls to the side with a sigh, his hands coming to rest atop Seungcheol’s. 

“Want you to fuck me.” He says, voice low and breathy—before he slips out of Seungcheol’s arms and crawls forward onto the bed.

Seungcheol groans, staring at the delicate curve of Jihoon’s tail as he lifts it high.

 “You’re—” Seungcheol cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. He drops to his knees behind Jihoon, stroking up along the sleek fur of his tail.

Jihoon’s not in heat—Seungcheol would have smelt it on him—but his hole is already open and slick, ready and desperate to be filled.

“Fuck, you’re _wet_.”

Jihoon levels Seungcheol a smile over his shoulder even as he spreads his thighs wider, wicked and sweet in equal measures.

“Of course I’m wet. I _want_ you.”

Growling, Seungcheol grabs Jihoon’s thighs and flips him over onto his back, crawling over him till they’re staring at each other, eye to eye.

Their mouths come together, hot and wet and no space for words between them. This time it’s not just a fantasy. This time, even if this is a one-time chance for a one-night stand, Seungcheol knows he can have him.

* * *

 

Seungcheol takes it slower now than he’s ever before. He hates the sappy thought that it’s because he knows Jihoon genuinely fancies him, but, if he’s being honest with himself, that’s probably it.

Jihoon doesn't seem to mind, at any rate; they kiss as Seungcheol works his fingers into him, gradually loosening him up until he’s writhing, rubbing his hard cock against Seungcheol's belly and thrashing his tail across the sheets.

"Come on," Jihoon murmurs, nipping at the shell of Seungcheol's ear, his ankle sliding down the back of Seungcheol's leg, "you gonna get inside me or what?"

"So impatient, kitten," Seungcheol says. He rolls on a condom and slicks it up.

He scoops Jihoon's legs up into the crooks of his elbows and presses into him slowly, one long satisfying glide sees him buried deep, watching the way Jihoon's eyes screw shut and his mouth opens. Jihoon mewls—and it sounds like relief, like he's been waiting for Seungcheol's cock all day.

Jihoon's hands squeeze his ass as Seungcheol pushes into him over and over, loosening him up. There hasn't been enough prep, and he’s still so fucking tight. He’s breathing like he’s running a marathon; his thighs are trembling, muscles clenching around Seungcheol’s cock like eager fingers beckoning,  _move, move, move_.

It’s driving Seungcheol insane.

He’s never done it like _this_ before.

Seungcheol finds the angle he wants and drives in, knowing he's hit the right spot when Jihoon bites his tongue and swears, back arching off the bed and his cock bouncing hard against Seungcheol's belly.

It's easy then to set a pace, steadily increasing, every push like coming home.

Soon enough, Jihoon has an arm over his eyes, his other hand still clutching Seungcheol like he’s afraid Seungcheol will stop if he lets go.

"You like this," Seungcheol says, shaking sweat out of his eyes. He presses his mouth against the inside of Jihoon's knee.

"Yeah," Jihoon replies, his voice shredded. "Yeah,  _yeah_."

The hand on his ass drops, and Seungcheol looks down to watch it slide round Jihoon's cock, slick with precome.

He doesn't know what he wants to watch more, Jihoon touching himself or his own cock sliding in and out of him, but he feels a hand on the back of his neck, urging his face up. Jihoon’s gazing at him with heavy-lidded eyes, biting his swollen lower lip.

Seungcheol pulls out nearly all the way, until the head of his cock is teasing Jihoon, and the sweet expression drops from his face. "Hey!"

Laughing, Seungcheol hikes Jihoon's legs up higher, bending forward for a kiss. It must shift his cock even deeper, because suddenly Jihoon's  _yeah_ s turned into wordless meows, his back arching. He continues jerking himself, his ankles locked behind Seungcheol's back. His tale thuds heavily against the mattress: a tell-tale sign he isn't going to last much longer.

Seungcheol picks up his pace, working into him more frantically. A few thrusts later and Jihoon is coming with a full-body shudder, mewling as Seungcheol pushes his legs up higher so he can watch the Kitten come all over himself.

"Fuck, you're so--" Seungcheol gasps, but the word slips away from him as he picks up his pace, gives himself over to the wave of pleasure he’s riding.

It’s been too long since he's had someone moaning underneath him, another man taking his cock and begging him for more, and far longer since he's been the object of such clear affection. Even as words fail them, as kisses stutter into bites then breathless open-mouthed pants, Seungcheol can see and feel what Jihoon had said earlier is true. He  _wants_  Seungcheol in spite of what he is, in spite of his doubts, and fuck, Seungcheol wants to be worthy of him.

Seungcheol loses his rhythm then, his snapping erratically as he chasing down the building tension. He pushes Jihoon's knees nearly over his shoulders, and Jihoon's body moves with him easily, like it’s nothing for him to bend like this.

Seungcheol grinds into him one last time and comes, Jihoon’s name the only word he seems to be able to remember.

* * *

 

When his brain starts working again, Seungcheol finds himself sprawled on top of Jihoon—still buried to the hilt.

He feels pleasantly warm and his muscles are touched with a barely there ache—enough to let him know he gave them a good work out, but not enough to have been a strain.

No, having sex with Jihoon is definitely not a strain.

It was amazing. Better than Seungcheol remembers it being with anyone else.

He opens his eyes, confirming what he already knows: Jihoon’s awake and purring contently underneath him, running his palms up and down Seungcheol's sweaty back.

Carefully, Seungcheol withdraws his semi-soft cock and disposes of the condom, then turns his head and kisses the corner of Jihoon's mouth.

He flicks his ear against Jihoon's silky one, which earns him a pleased sigh in response.

“What’s your real name?” Jihoon asks, tail sweeping lazily over the sheets.

Seungcheol can’t stop himself from tensing all over. It’s a natural response.  “Uh—”

The feline smile on the boy’s face falls.

The tail makes another sweep, sharper and brisker. “Don’t bother telling me if you’re just going to make one up. It’s cool—I’ll just remember you as Kim—Monster Cock—Seungmin. The guy who likes pay per view porn with cheesy titles.”

This is the moment Seungcheol knows he’s fucked.

Jihoon’s already had him vulnerable and begging, and now, instead of running away, of escaping before he reveals too much of himself, he braces his forearm along the mattress near Jihoon's head and presses himself up far enough to meet the Kitten’s eyes. The expression he finds is a perfect match for his own feelings. Anxious and stunned and sated. A little hopeful.

Seungcheol's heart gives a desperate pulse at the sight, “It’s Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol.”

Jihoon smiles like a Cherub, his dimples showing. “You kind of said it in James Bond style,” he says. He sucks his bottom lip in, biting it then releasing it. “That’s pretty hot.”

Seungcheol chuckles, then leans down to take Jihoon's mouth in a slower kiss.

Jihoon opens for him, teasing his tongue alongside Seungcheol's, breathes a pleased sound that leaves Seungcheol's senses spinning.

Eventually—reluctantly—he breaks the kiss and eases his weight off Jihoon. He settles on his side, far enough over for both of them to avoid the wet spot. When he gives a hopeful tug, Jihoon follows readily, curling into Seungcheol's arms like a contented cat and nuzzling at the base of his throat.

 

* * *

 

“Will I see you again?” Jihoon’s voice is groggy and soft—drifting over to him like a curl of smoke.

Seungcheol stops tying his shoelace to look up at him.

It’s a loaded question—about the future, about his place in it. It’s also a statement that he’s willing to give more, hoping that Seungcheol wants that too.

Seungcheol straightens and reaches for his jacket, still pooled on the floor. He’s got everything else back on, has scraped his hair back as well as he can, made sure he has his wallet and keys.

He _shouldn’t_ be lingering now, shouldn’t be making promises he damn well knows are too dangerous to keep.

But the way Jihoon’s staring at him with singular focus, red silk bedsheets arranged in abandon across his pale limbs has Seungcheol draping the jacket over the arm of the couch and stepping back over to the bed.

He wants Jihoon all over again, even though he's just had him.

It’s crazy.

It’s stupid and reckless and a hundred other things Seungcheol is _not._ But that doesn’t stop his knee from shifting in the sheets, doesn’t stop him from leaning down and letting his fingers stroke lightly over the length of Jihoon’s tail.  

He presses an almost chaste kiss at the smiling curve of Jihoon’s mouth, then another, less chaste, on his lips. He peppers a line of searing kisses up Jihoon’s spine, tastes Jihoon's neck with his tongue and then bites, not breaking skin, just making a promise.

“Yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is the fastest I've written something. So it's clumsy and imperfect, but I wanted to have SOMETHING done by Jicheol Day and I am flat out working for the next week. So clumsy and imperfect is all I got now.  
> 2) Just an FYI. They're hybrids. Human bodies and faces...just with ears and tails. I AM NOT A FURRY! XD  
> 3) This was a mix of two prompts I wanted to complete. I decided to roll them into one. Which...was hard to write because I wanted a mix of both universes while still driving the plot forward. Not sure if it worked, but I'll chalk it down to learning anyway.  
> 4) Hope you enjoyed reading!


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